


Flirting Is Not An Experiment

by FourCornersHolmes, I_am_lampy



Series: After All These Years [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Experimentation, John is Not Amused, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 22:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10580538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: John and Sherlock go to a pub to meet Gina, the woman who's standing up for John at his and Sherlock's wedding. Sherlock starts a little experiment and finds out it was a bit not good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Lovelies,
> 
> Forgive us for not giving you smut in this episode. I promise I will give you heaps and heaps in the next. And eventually there will be a wedding!

"I want you to meet Gina," John said, handing Sherlock his evening cup of tea.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, typing furiously on his laptop.

"Well, she's standing up for me at my wedding for one," John said, sitting in his chair and picking up his Kindle. "What are you writing?"

"A letter," Sherlock said.

"To who?" John asked.

"Whom," Sherlock said without looking up.

"What?"

"You said _to who_. I corrected you. It's _to whom_."

"Alright. _Whom_ are you writing a letter to?" John asked, taking a sip of his tea and firing up his ancient Kindle e-reader.

"To Mycroft," Sherlock said, looking back down at the laptop and picking up his furious typing.

"Why in the world would you be writing a letter to Mycroft?" John asked.

"Because it annoys him," Sherlock said.

"Ah," John replied. "So, about Gina."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, without looking up.

"You know, you always go on at people about being _tedious_ because they talk about things you don't give a shit about but conversations with you can be so – fucking – tedious. You are I are meeting Gina and her friend tomorrow night for drinks."

"Oh, God, why?" Sherlock asked, looking up, his face pale with horror.

"Because you need to meet her," John said, grinning, and looked down at his e-reader.

"But _why_? Why would you subject me to this?"

"Because she's standing up for me at our wedding and I want you to meet her!" John said, happy to have gotten the most important part of the conversation out.

"I'm sure she's perfectly capable of doing that without having to meet me," Sherlock said, sighing with the air of someone being sent off to unplug the bog or an equally odious task.

"That's not the way it's done," John said. He knew it was pointless to start reading so he took a sip of his tea and waited for the backlash.

"I don’t care _how it's done_! I can't think of anything I care for less than – "

" _I_ care how it's done," John said sternly, his voice brooking no argument. "I want you to meet her. Therefore, you will meet her. Tomorrow at eight. Drinks."

"I'd rather just not get married," Sherlock muttered petulantly.

"What did you say?" John asked in his commanding officer voice.

"Nothing," Sherlock said quickly and went back to typing his letter to Mycroft.

“You will be there, Sherlock, and that’s the end of the matter,” John said. He picked up his Kindle and added, "Oh, and by the way?"

“What?” Sherlock didn’t look up from his typing but he knew better than to sit in silence. John didn't like it when Sherlock failed to acknowledge that he was being spoken to. It had led to some very unpleasant arguments and the occasional ban on sex and Sherlock was _not_ having that.

“I asked you twice and you said yes both times. You didn't _have_ to say yes.”

When Sherlock looked up, eyes wide, John was reading a novel on the Kindle, sipping his tea, ignoring Sherlock, and _not_ smiling.

* * *

 

The next night, a Friday night, Sherlock stood in the sitting room wearing his most mutinous expression. John ignored it. If he and Sherlock were going to be together till death (of natural causes or as a result of a murderous rage by their husband) then Sherlock was going to have to get used to the idea of John having friends and of Sherlock having to occasionally be sociable with people. He could be charming when he chose to; he just didn't choose to.

"Ready?" John asked, sliding his wallet into the back pocket of his trousers.

"Do I have a choice?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.

"Let's go over the rules again," John said.

"I _know_ the rules, John. No deducing anyone out loud. If I don't know what to say, stay silent. Pretend to be interested in what Gina and Oliver are saying. Make inane comments like _oh really_ and _that's funny_. Smile. Do not talk about morgues, death, dead bodies, murders, murderers, or anything else that might be construed as _fun_."

"Oh, ha ha. You're hilarious. Let's go, you twat."

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked as they pulled their coats off their hooks downstairs. For John, who was made of hardier stuff than Sherlock, he only pulled on a navy pea coat; Sherlock pulled on his coat, muffler and gloves.

"Soho," John said, opening the front door.

"Please tell me we're not going to one of those gay – "

"Yep!" John said, grinning evilly. "It's called Climax."

"You are asking far too much of me, John. Even for you, this is – "

"Taxi!" John yelled, holding up his hand. Two cabs went by before Sherlock stepped in and flagged one down.

"Climax in Soho," John said to the cabbie.

"You do realize that this is my worst nightmare, right? Sitting in a pub in Soho with two people I don't know, nor care to know, whilst trying to keep my mouth shut and look interested in small talk?"

"You can deduce all the people out loud and entertain Gina and Olivia."

"Olivia?"

"Yes, Olivia, Sherlock."

"What happened to Oliver?"

"There never was an Oliver. Gina's girlfriend is called Olivia."

"Oh."

"Please try to recall that she is a woman," John said, turning to Sherlock and laying his hand on Sherlock's arm. "She's very gender fluid."

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"She looks like a very feminine man or a very boyish woman, depending on how you look at her. Kind of like one of those pictures that looks like a vase but when you get closer it's actually a duck?" John said.

"You've lost your mind. I don't even know – who are you? You have sex with one man and suddenly you're well-versed in the language of the LGBQT community? You used to be the straightest person I knew!" Sherlock said.

"And now I'm not," John said and planted a smooch on Sherlock's lips.

"Will we have to wait in line? Will there be dancing? I hate dancing. I can dance but I hate it. Will we have to eat? I hate watching people eat. They always make these _sounds_. They're horrible. I can hear their teeth smashing together," Sherlock said, anxiety blooming hot and sharp in his chest.

"Calm down, madman. It's not as riotous as it sounds. It's a nice little pub off of Old Compton Street. You'll like it."

"No, I won't."

"You'll pretend to like it. Or I won't let you top until after we're married."

Sherlock turned to John with a look of despair. "John! I can't believe you would blackmail me with _sex_!"

"Will it work?" John asked, running his hands through Sherlock's hair.

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said, crossing his arms.

John grabbed Sherlock by his muffler and pulled him close. He put his mouth next to Sherlock's ear and said, "I'll let you ride me as hard as I ride you when you tell me you need to take your brain offline. And I'll role-play anything you want while we're doing it."

Sherlock's eyes widened and his lips parted slightly. He was already getting an erection.

"All _you_ have to do," John continued. "Is deduce the people around you to the entertainment of Gina and Olivia and smile while you do it. Maybe fetch some drinks. Say please and thank you.”

"Deal!" Sherlock said, his face greedy. He would charm the pants off of everyone in the place. He could already hear John saying _oh, sir, I need help with with my Latin declensions_.

* * *

For a bar with such an ostentatious and sexually explicit name, Climax was, like John had said, a nice little pub. Gina and Oliver hadn't arrived yet – _Olivia_ , he reminded himself; he was determined to get it right. He wanted his _prize_ for good behavior.

"Oh, good, it's early yet," John said. "Plenty of tables. Go sit down and I'll get you a cognac. Or do you want a glass of wine?"

"Hennessy," Sherlock said absentmindedly, walking around the whole of the bar to determine which table would give him the widest view of the place. When he reached the end of the bar, near the toilets, he looked over his shoulder. The bartender was leaning on the bar and watching him.

"What can I get you?" he asked.

Based on the amount of his torso visible above the level of the bar (a metre in height, Sherlock guessed) he was about the same height as Sherlock. His hair was dark and wavy, shorter than Sherlock's and more stylish. His skin was dusky. His eyebrows were thick and dark and the shadow of black stubble graced his jaw and chin. He had beautiful, full lips and startling silver-green eyes lined in black lashes so thick that he seemed to be wearing eyeliner. The color of his eyes seemed impossible against his skin and hair.

"Are you wearing colored contacts?" Sherlock asked, stepping closer, frowning.

"No," the bartender said. "But I get that a lot. My name's Azima. What can I get you?"

"They're extraordinary," Sherlock said, forgetting his social cues momentarily, getting right up close and looking at his irises. "What's your ethnicity?"

"My parents are from Iran," he said, not flinching away from Sherlock's invasion of his personal space nor his obsessive assessment of Azima's eyes.

"Ah," Sherlock said, nodding. "Persian."

"Well, we're called Iranians now but, yeah," Azima said good-naturedly. "Your eyes are pretty extraordinary as well."

Sherlock cocked his head, his eyebrows furrowing in puzzlement. Azima's body language suggested that Azima was flirting with him. Sherlock felt the first stirrings of excitement at the thought of a new experiment.

He couldn't remember a man ever flirting with him. Well. This was probably the first time he'd been in a gay bar that didn't involve a case. Women had flirted with Sherlock his whole life. He had never paid attention unless it was important to a case he was working on. But he had never, not once that he could remember at any rate, had a man flirt with him.

Was Azima even gay? John kept reminding him in the cab that it wasn't a _gay_ bar but a _gay friendly_ bar. Maybe he was bisexual. How would he flirt with a woman? Would it be different than the way he flirted with a man? Was Azima flirting just to get tips or was he genuinely interested in Sherlock?

"Are you flirting with me?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head and moving a little closer to the bar to gauge Azima's reaction.

"I don't know," Azima said, looking down at the bar and then back up at Sherlock. "Do you want me to be flirting with you?"

Sherlock considered Azima's response to be a pretty standard _volley_ in the game of sexual negotiation. Now it was Sherlock's turn to throw the ball.

"Not if you're just doing it for the tips," Sherlock said finally.

Azima laughed. He had even, square, white teeth. Sherlock started to look closer and then realized it was probably not a good idea to try to inspect his mouth. That was really over the line of socially acceptable behavior. But he was curious to know if those were Azima's real teeth or if he had gotten dental work done. And if he had gotten dental work done, was it vanity or had he done it with the knowledge that the better he looked, the more tips he would get? Sherlock still couldn't find a good way to describe Azima's eyes. Were they green-blue? Or silver-green? They were both dark and light, both luminous and shaded.

"All the bartenders and wait staff share the tips," Azima said, smiling. "I don't need to flirt for tips."

Now Sherlock was stumped. He couldn't think of an appropriate volley. He thought back over the conversation so far. Everything they had said played off of the last thing the other person had said. Confident that he was getting it right, Sherlock answered.

"What _do_ you need to flirt for then?" Sherlock asked, smiling triumphantly.

"Well, see, that's the thing," Azima said, rubbing two fingers across his lips as he gazed at Sherlock in a way that made him suddenly self-conscious. "I have a no flirting policy when it comes to my job."

 _Ah!_ Sherlock thought. In the game of sexual negotiation, it was vital to convince your prey that they were special; it led to a higher rate of acquiescence.

"Well, then why are you flirting with me?" Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Azima said.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, unsure what that had to do with flirting. "I have to. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to shave."

Azima laughed like Sherlock had told a joke and slid the palm of his hand along his jaw. Sherlock watched and noted _uses his hands to draw attention to his face or his mouth? or both?_

"Are you here alone?" Azima asked.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and said, "No," and walked off to find John.

* * *

 

John had found a table as well as their company for the evening. Sherlock sized them up. Gina was clearly the one who made John look tall. Her girlfriend – wife? – was much taller, five foot eight or nine. He avoided deducing them so that he wouldn't be tempted to blurt out anything that would make John mad.

"Hello," Sherlock said and smiled his least scary smile. 

"There he is!" John said, his mouth was smiling but his eyes weren't. "Where were you?"

"Over there," Sherlock said and pointed towards Azima. It also happened to be where the toilets were. He slid in next to John. Gina and Olivia were on the other side of the small rectangular table.

"I'm Gina," the little one said, thrusting out her hand for Sherlock to shake. "John has told me so much about you. I'm so excited to hear you're getting married! You must be excited, too! John said he had a big surprise for us and that he wanted me to meet you. I have to say, you're just handsomer than I thought you would be. And a Christmas wedding!" She splayed her hand on her chest and turned her eyes upward as though the idea of a Christmas wedding was a gift from the heavens.

Sherlock winced a little at her effusiveness. She kept leaning further and further across the tiny table into Sherlock's space, which caused him to lean further away so that he was rubbing up against John's arm. John shrugged him off and Sherlock turned around to look at John.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," John said, shaking his head, smiling at Sherlock like he hadn't practically just thrown him off his arm.

Sherlock looked away and saw Olivia smirking at him behind Gina's back. She was leaning back in her chair and she raised her eyebrows at him _you're in trouble_. Sherlock rolled his eyes towards John. She laughed silently and gave him a wry look _tell me about it_. They grinned at each other. He decided he liked Olivia.

"I can't get this one to commit," Gina said, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb. "So what's this big announcement?"

"Sherlock and I wanted to ask you to stand up for me at our wedding," John said, cupping his drinks with both hands, blushing in that lovely way that made Sherlock's mouth water at the thought of sucking John's cock.

Gina's squeal was loud enough to attract the looks of patrons from two tables over. Sherlock caught Olivia's eye.

_See what I have to put up with?_

_I don't know how you can stand her._

_She's a fucking beast in the sack._

They grinned at each other again in shared amusement.

Sherlock decided this night wasn't going to be as much of a waste of his time nor as much of an affront to his dignity as he had originally believed.

* * *

 

"Is that your boyfriend?" Azima said gesturing over his shoulder when Sherlock returned to the bar to pick up the next round of drinks.

"John? He's my flatmate," Sherlock answered. Technically not a lie.

"Really?" Azima said, quirking an eyebrow like he didn't believe Sherlock.

"We live together. We share the rent. Isn't that the definition of a flatmate?" Sherlock said, quirking his own eyebrow.

"I just don't want some guy punching me because I'm flirting with his boyfriend," Azima said, leaning on the bar.

Sherlock mimicked his gesture by leaning on his side of the bar. He watched Azima to see what his reaction would be.

His pupils were dilated, but it was dim in the bar so it was hard to tell if attraction was the cause. Sherlock considered putting his hand on the bar, palm up, to see if Azima would put his hand on top and give Sherlock the opportunity to check his pulse but that was too much like genuine flirting, inviting someone else to touch him. Instead Sherlock leaned closer and let his eyes wander to Azima's neck, to his carotid. He watched it, trying to catch Azima's pulse that way but Azima moved his head right when Sherlock almost had the rhythm of his heartbeat. He bit back a noise of frustration.

"Why are you staring at my neck?" Azima asked, leaning so close to Sherlock that the two of them almost met halfway across the bar. "Don't tell me you're a vampire. That would really ruin my night."

"Ugh," Sherlock said, frowning. "That was a lame volley."

"I'm sorry?" Azima asked.

"Nothing."

"Are you avoiding the question?" Azima asked, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. Sherlock's eyes watched Azima's thumb with far more interest than he felt was strictly appropriate.

"Question?" Sherlock asked, swallowing.

"Yeah. I asked you why you were looking at my neck."

They were much closer than before and Sherlock realized that it was _he_ who had leaned further this time.

"It's a, uh – well, a measure of the degree of attraction one individual has towards another."

"Seriously?" Azima asked, breaking out into a wide grin. "Why? Were you worried I didn't like you as much as you like me? Because I promise you, Sherlock. I want you very, very badly."

"Uh," Sherlock said, realizing he had stepped over the boundaries of pure experimentation and into the grey area of moral imperatives. He started to slide his elbows off the bar but Azima darted his hand out and wrapped it around Sherlock's forearm. Sherlock looked at it like he was afraid it might melt his skin.

"Don't let me scare you away," Azima said, sliding his hand up a little and rubbing his thumb against the inside of Sherlock's elbow, a surprisingly pleasant feeling.

"Tell me, Sherlock. What is your heart rate saying?" Azima asked, his voice low and rough. He licked his lips.

"Erm," Sherlock said, staring at Azima's lips.

"What the fuck! Are you doing!" John shouted.

Sherlock and Azima sprang apart.

 _Oh, shit_ , Sherlock thought.

* * *

 

Sherlock was sent outside to wait for John while John explained their sudden departure to Gina and Olivia, presumably without saying _i just busted my boyfriend flirting with the bartender_.

It had been many, many years since Sherlock had been _in trouble_ and he was dismayed to find that it felt just as terrible at forty-three as it had at eight. He kept his hands in his pockets and his face pressed into his muffler against the cold, and stared at the sidewalk, trying not to remember the look in John's eyes.

When John was trying very hard not to kill someone, he smiled. He would narrow his eyes and tilt his head like he was giving you a chance to take it back, whatever _it_ was – a threat, an insult, or, say, flirting with a bartender – because he didn't want to _have_ to kill you. That smile said _I'm a doctor, I would really rather save lives than end them but if you're determined to continue on your current path then I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to kill you_.

That was exactly how he had looked at Sherlock when he caught him bent over the bar with Azima's hand around his arm and Azima's lips less than six inches from Sherlock's. To make matters worse, Azima had smiled sadly at Sherlock  _too bad you have a_ _boyfriend_ and then smirked _although I kinda dodged a bullet_. Saying it was for an experiment, although true – _partly true_ , Sherlock's subconscious supplied – wouldn't have mattered to either man. Not that Sherlock cared what mattered to Azima. _Pfft._ Not even a little bit.

See! This is what came of having sex with people. If Sherlock had kept his mouth off of John's cock that first night, then he wouldn't be standing on the sidewalk outside of a _gay friendly_ bar in Soho, waiting nervously for the moment that John would start shouting at him and not just ban him from topping but maybe even from bottoming. Oh, God, what if he put a moratorium on  _all_ sex? What a dull few months Sherlock had ahead of him.

John practically exploded out of the entrance of the bar and Sherlock flinched before reminding himself he was a grown man and wasn't going to be intimidated by his –

"Get in the car," John said without raising his voice, pointing at the taxi that had pulled up at the curb. He opened up the door. He didn't look at Sherlock. He just stood there, holding the door open, squinting up at the sky as though there was something really fascinating up there. Or maybe just that there was nothing interesting to look at down here.

Sherlock got in the car and scooted up against the far door, taking up as little space as possible. John got in and gave the cabbie their address. ( _Their address_ , Sherlock thought wistfully, feeling certain that by the time John was through with him, it would no longer be Sherlock's address at all).

"John, I – "

John held up his hand in a silencing gesture and without looking at Sherlock said, "Don't. Talk."

"But I – "

"If you speak one more word, I swear to God, Sherlock, I will shoot you in the kneecap. Don't fucking talk. I don't want to hear your voice and I don't want to look at your face right now."

Sherlock opened his mouth but John held up his hand again and Sherlock could see how carefully John was holding in his anger and knew that if he said anything it was highly likely John would shoot him in the kneecap. The last time Sherlock had seen John _this_ angry, he’d escaped with a bloody lip and ringing ears, maybe some fingerprint bruises on his throat. He doubted he would be so lucky this time. The rest of the ride home was very quiet, uncomfortably so. John didn’t say a word. He just kept grimacing and flexing his right hand against his thigh, clenching it in a fist and relaxing the fingers over and over. Sherlock sat next to him, not too close, dreading the confrontation he knew was coming. When the cab stopped at Baker Street, John got out first and held the door for him, paying the fare. Then he opened the front door and Sherlock went in first.

“Go upstairs, Sherlock.” John’s voice was dangerously soft. It had that edge in it that Sherlock hadn’t heard in a very long time. Sherlock swallowed hard and went up seventeen steps to the door of 221B. John was there, somehow, opening the door again “Take your coat off and sit down. And take off your shoes and socks. But nothing else. Do you understand me?”

“Fine." Quietly and obediently Sherlock removed his gloves, coat, and muffler and hung them in their usual place. John hung his coat as well and moved past Sherlock into the flat, turning on a couple of lights as he went. As he disappeared up the stairs, Sherlock called out “John?”

“Yes, you can start a fire, Sherlock. It’s cold in here.”

Toeing off his shoes, Sherlock set them beside his chair and knelt to build a fire in the fireplace. If nothing else, it gave him something to do with his hands. Once a decent blaze was going, he sat down in his chair like John had asked. He could hear John in the bedroom upstairs, moving around. He thought he heard the safe open and close again; John would be putting away his gun. John didn’t leave the house without his gun these days; it was a habit picked up from being caught at a disadvantage one time too many on the streets. Lestrade had found him a conceal-carry holster so that he didn’t have to worry about it and Mycroft had ensured the weapon was properly registered and invisible.

When John came out of the bedroom, Sherlock blinked. John had taken off his shoes, socks, button-down, and jumper. He wore nothing but his trousers and a white vest and his identification-tags . Sherlock swallowed hard. John moved carefully, deliberately, and stopped two feet away. Sherlock was forced to lean his head back to make eye-contact as John quietly folded his hands behind his back, standing at-attention. ~~~~

“I am going to speak. Please don't interrupt me. When I'm finished, I'll listen to your explanation but keep in mind that you've never had any qualms about lying to _me_ so I don't feel any obligation to believe _anything_ you say. Got it?" ~~~~

“I accept your proposal," Sherlock said, looking at the floor to gather his thoughts. He wanted to say _I’m sorry. It was an experiment._ Was it really, though? Sherlock took a deep breath.

"What did I ask you to do in the cab, Sherlock?"

"You said deduce the people around me to the entertainment of Gina and Olivia. Oh, I rather liked Olivia. I suppose I can put up with Gina if - "

John was giving Sherlock that  _please don't make me kill you_ smile again.

"Uh, right. Maybe fetch some drinks. Say please and thank you. Oh, and smile. Forgot that bit."

"What did I promise you if you did those things, Sherlock?"

"That you would let me ride you like you ride me when I need to take my brain offline and you would role play anything I asked for while we did it." Again, Sherlock felt himself getting aroused at the very thought.

"What happened instead of what we agreed you would do, Sherlock?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, knowing this was the part where he had gone off script and made John so angry. "I flirted with the bartender?"

"Is that a question, Sherlock? Are you unsure about what happened?"

"No," Sherlock said, shrinking back slightly at the menace in John's voice.

"Did you or did you not flirt with the bartender?"

"I did but - "

"Do you know why it's wrong to flirt with a bartender? Or anyone for that matter?"

"Because, um - " Sherlock squinted, trying to think why it was bad. "Oh, right! Because flirting is what you do when you're trying to get someone to have sex with you."

"Exactly, Sherlock. You always do like to show how brilliant you are, don't you? I'm glad you've caught up with the conversation. So tell me. Why is it wrong to flirt with someone?"

"Because it means I'm trying to get them to have sex with me?" Sherlock asked and when John's eyes widened in a very scary way and started to step towards him, Sherlock quickly blurted out, "It was an experiment!"

“ _That_.” John pointed out the window at the dark street outside of Baker Street, “ _That_ was an experiment? You flirting with the bartender, was an experiment?”

“Yes," Sherlock said, wanting to add _obviously_ but knowing better.

"He was about to _kiss_ you, Sherlock!”

“Uh,” Sherlock said, struggling for a way to explain so that John would know he was telling the truth. “Irene.”

“Pardon?” John narrowed his eyes.

“You heard me, John. Irene.”

“Irene _Adler_? The Woman?”

“Yes.”

John paced a bit, and then it hit him. “Oh. _He_ started it and _you_ turned it into an experiment on attraction.”

“Exactly! I take it I didn't keep up my end of the deal?" Sherlock asked tentatively. One could always hope.

John chuckled that evil chuckle that meant Sherlock was going to be _very_ sore in certain places in the morning.

“So, what _was_ his name? Did you ever find out?”

“Erm. Azima?”

He hated it when he ended sentences in question marks. It made him sound like he didn't know his own mind. He recalled staring at the bartender's lips. Very inappropriate.

“And what do we know now about our handsome bartender who flirted quite successfully with my fiancé?” John put both hands on the arms of Sherlock's chair and leaned over Sherlock, crowding him.

“Are you asking me what I _learned_ from the experiment?” Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John answered. "Obviously."

"Touché," Sherlock said, scowling. "I hate to say it, considering all the trouble it's caused me but he flirted just like a woman. It was a bit disappointing. I expected there to be more – "

"More what?"

"More of a difference. I tried to get his pulse by looking at his carotid and he said _why are you looking at my neck? Don't tell me you're a vampire. It will spoil my night._ Who says that?"

"People who are flirting with you."

"So if they're trying to get off with me, they automatically make themselves sound more idiotic? That seems counter-intuitive. I did notice one thing," Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up.

"Do I want to know?" John said, groaning and sitting down in his own chair. He covered his face with his hands.

"When he touched me – "

"He fucking touched you? And you fucking let him? I thought you _hated_ it when people touched you!" John said, ready to explode out of his chair.

"I do! That was the interesting thing. I didn't mind it as - "

"Really, Sherlock? After all I've said to you tonight, you're telling me that you _liked_ it when he touched you?"

"Oh. Right," Sherlock said. "This was probably not a good time to bring that up."

"There was _never_ going to be a good time to bring that up! Jesus, Sherlock!" John said, rubbing his face with both hands as though he was trying to wash away the whole evening. When he took his hands away he stared at Sherlock for a minute like he was trying to see something that he couldn't quite see yet. "Do I need to worry about you?"

"I don't know what you mean by that," Sherlock said.

"Do you think it's possible you would ever sleep with someone else?" John asked, hating asking but needing to ask nonetheless.

"Oh, good God, no! Why would I want to do that?" Sherlock said, looking aghast. "I can barely stand being in a relationship with – uh, no. No, that is something you do not need to worry about."

"You can't even stand being in a relationship with me?" John asked, standing up and invading Sherlock's personal space again. "If you'll recall my words from last night. I asked you twice to marry me and you said yes both times. If you can't stand being in a - "

"I didn't mean I couldn't _stand_ you! I just meant that even in a relationship with you, a man I've known for ten years and have loved almost since the moment I met you is a daily struggle for me! Who else have I been with other than you, John? How many people have I slept with? Oh, that's right. _One_. There's a reason for that. I didn't want sex much less a relationship. It was superfluous to what I needed. I know this is going to sound arrogant but there must be something about you, something I can't define, that would make me break my own rule regarding avoiding romantic and sexual relationships. Nobody else has been given that honor!

"I don't have your experience with romance or sex or even friendships! I'm always unsure. I never know if I'm going to disappoint you or anger you or make you sad or – or make you want to leave. I was worried you would kick me out of the flat tonight. You were just so angry and I kept wishing you would let me explain that it was just an experiment. Was it flattering? Yes. Was he attractive? Yes. Was he in any way a threat to you? No.

"If after ten years together, first as friends and now as lovers, you still feel insecure in how I feel about you, then I've failed you and I don't know how to – " Sherlock looked down at his hands. He was wringing them over and over. He hated being at an emotional disadvantage, not knowing what was the _appropriate_ thing to say. Even if he had known what one _should_ say in a situation like this, Sherlock would never lie to John. So he told the truth. "I don't know how to make my love for you any clearer. This is me at my best. This is me trying my hardest. I don't know how to be any more – how to be any better at this. At us. So."

"I love you, madman. I do. But please don't flirt with any bartenders in the future, okay? Or anyone else for that matter," John said and rubbed a hand over his face. "Since you didn't keep up your end of the bargain, I'm afraid you lost out on your reward. _But_ I am stripping you naked, and then I'm taking you to bed and showing you exactly what happens to boyfriends who flirt with bartenders. I want to make sure you understand who you belong to."

"Will there be spanking?" Sherlock asked greedily.

"There will be lots of spanking," John assured. "Stand up.”

Sherlock stood up and watched John undo the buttons of his shirt. John kept looking up at Sherlock's face and every time he did, Sherlock wanted to grab him by the straps of his vest and kiss him but he didn't. This was John's show. John pulled Sherlock's shirt off and dropped it on the floor. His trousers followed, and his pants _would_ have, if Sherlock had bothered to wear any.

“Oh, you cheeky bastard. Come on." John grabbed him by the wrist and upstairs to the bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a few shots of our gorgeous bartender Azima! The model in these images is Iranian model Karoush Sadeghi. Say hello to the bartender who got Sherlock into so much trouble!

**Author's Note:**

> I always welcome emails from readers about anything that tickles your fancy, even if it's just randomness!
> 
> archiveofMYown@gmail.com  
> Teddy


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